Antje
by RedBarron
Summary: In the midst of peril and doubt, who but our brave adventurer shall prove his worth by going above and beyond what is called of him
1. Chapter 1

_The day was grey_

_They day was bad…_

The colorless clouds of a stormy depression rolled in to Stormalong harbor on the evening tide. It blanketed the entire city in a fog so thick that a man could only see ten feet in any direction from where he was standing. The only sign of life was the bright light, coming from a building that illuminated off the banks of fog which surrounded it.

Hassled and old the "Candy Barrel", was a sight unlike any other. Its seasoned boards and rotted railing only gave testament to its age. It was surprising, because it had only been erected only a near 15 years ago, but that's what the sea does. It makes all things age more quickly, even the inhabitants who gave residence there, were old in appearance.

Inside they lounged around, the former sailors, mariners, town craftsmen, and seamstresses who had gathered for their usual exchange of knowledge and know about. As usual it was dead silent. No t a word whispered to anyone, all there were, were a bunch of sad and cumbersome eyes staring around at scene that had all seen many times before.

At the entrance there sat the young boy with blonde hair leaning over the table, pondering in deep perplexity over a cup of dice he had been dealt to him by the blue sailor who sat across from him. They both gazed and waited for the other. It had been an endless dice game, playing the blue sailors favorite: Liar's dice. They simply stared.

Next to them was the town's chirurgeon, a middle aged man with deep wrinkles and a bloated body. He was a doctor, of sorts, most thought he was an empiric, but they respected him nonetheless for his excellent handling with the knife under pressure. Every called him Doctor, or as he preferred: Doctor Barber, as he ran a small barber shop that was located next to his medical practice. His long side burns whisked effortlessly as he sat and whittled what looked like back scratcher or a shoe horn.

Behind the counter stood a scrawny man of his late twenties who monotonously scrubbed a cup that was used for the consumption of candy. His hair was neatly combed to one side, held in place by hair gel. His glasses were big and circular, standing firmly erected of his straight features. He was the proprietor: Larry, or his self-proclaimed title: Peppermint Larry. He had a deep love of candy, or so it seemed. He had gone so far as to make a living manikin of a woman out of candy which he deemed his: "Candy Wife", which he preferred to keep in a booth at the back of his establishment. Most people thought he was sane enough, just a light hearted fellow who was lonely. He hummed a tune as he continued to rub the glass he had rubbed for hours, on a spot that would never come off.

Suddenly the wind howled and shrieked a terrifying rattle that shook the entire building. Everyone held their breath for the brief moment the element rattled the wooden timbers. Peppermint Larry stepped from outside the bar to the window. "Sure is windy outside." He said as he went to shut the window. When he grabbed the shutter a gust of wind unlike any before pounded into the dock causing the window to unlatch and go flying halfway across the room, hitting a table where the lamp was. The lamp turned over and was extinguished causing the entire Candy Barrel to be consumed in darkness. The blonde boy named Flapjack sat looking at his dice saying calmly, "Four 3's" K'nuckles, the blue sailor, grabbed the dice containers in blind furry and threw them into the wind.

He sat down and explained, "You were cheating, me boy."

"But Captain…" the boy said confused.

"No, buts!!" he exclaimed, "As a sailor you know I can't lose. So why did you try to win?!"

Flapjack looked sadly down and said in a mild voice "I'm sorry."

As they continued talking about the moral obligations of a sailor and an adventurer the rest of the people took cover behind their booths as flying debris and particles flew through the broken windows causing a whirlwind of liter to go every which way in the Candy Barrel. Thunder resonated like cannon fire in the distance, as hurricane force wind rocked the port, causing every loose board to creak and crackle und the tyrannical might of the gale.

Out of the darkness stepped a figure into the "Candy Barrel." He was hardly discernable but some of his clothing was apparent. He wore a sailor's cap laced with gold rope, he clothes were covered in oilskins, and he wore knee high leather boots.

Battered and weary, he stepped into the Candy Barrel, when he did the wind died down enough for someone to light a candle and see what was occurring. The man stood rugged and stern, with his oil skins flapping behind him. "I need help" he said plainly.

"Don't we all." Someone remarked.

"This is no time for jokes. Me and me' daughter were out on our dingy when the storm blew in. It capsized, leaving her to float away on a piece of wood. I managed to swim to shore and run five miles here. We need to act immediately while we are in the eye of the storm. "

Everyone hesitantly started getting up from their booths. "Aye, we got to form rescue parties."

"It's her only chance."

They all started leaving the establishment one by one to help the sailor, expect for one. The blonde headed boy was already gone…


	2. Chapter 2

The bedrock, on which the docks were built, is sturdy: solid earth, unshakable, and firm. The pillars made of spruce, oak, concrete, mortar, and lime, was the best the world could offer. The rock was sturdy; the port that lied above it was not.

A port, which had been made 30 years prior, was only meant to be used for less than five. The reason for this was quite clear to anyone who simply glanced at its history. When the fishing industry had located a new migration of cod and lobster in the vicinity, they rushed from all sides to lay claim to it. However, they faced one very large prerogative that stood in their way from cashing in on such a large endeavor: there existed no port within 200 miles that would be big enough to support the extensive dry dock facilities needed for the fishing fleets to harvest their prey, or large enough to hold the large cargo vessels that took their cargo back to shores of New England. That was where practicality met essentiality, it was when they brought the most brilliant, or the most parsimonious, engineers in the world.

The location of the harbor was chosen for several reasons. Firstly, the spot on which now exists the town use to be an atoll, a small island jutting from the sea. It was an excellent position because; beneath the atoll there was the solid grounding of bedrock to anchor the facilities. Furthermore, surrounding the atoll was a large natural depression that sunk deep in the sea floor, which gave it the ability to hold any but the largest of ships. The depression in turn was surrounded by a ring of mountains and islands, located along a fault line, which guarded the atoll. The ring was more of an oval than an actual ring that ended at a large space between two islands in the north. A gap large enough to allow the various merchant and cargo ships to leave the harbor on their way to New England. These islands in turn provided excellent wind breaks against the trade winds coming from the south. It was strategic too; no hurricane in recorded history had ever come from the north. With that assurance, the citizens lived in a state of relative safety. At Stormalong's peak, these islands were inhabited by farmers, who provided a food and fiscal source for the harbor, growing the various fruits and other substances needed to survive, as well as harvesting the many exotic plants needed for industry such as: rubber, sugar cane, tea plants, and a host of others.

When it was completed, the fishing company, offered amazing tax incentives, inexpensive housing, and a host of other benefits to 800 men who would come and live there. The roster was filled with applications before the day it was posted had ended. They worked on ships, maintained order, made its own elected body, newspaper, and community utilities. Stormalong thrived and became a haven for sailors and travelers alike.

At the time, professional engineers and normal men and women, the world over, marveled at the great feat that had been accomplished in the building of a town that lied over the water, a majestic paradise where a man could lay the day away, while watching the sea go by. However, like many things too good to be true, it was simply a façade. The engineers had thought it wise early on to cut their expenses, to use a cheaper grade of tar and pitch, the kind used for ship's deck planks, to save money and to keep the boards in place, but because the docks constant wear to rain and sweltering sun and it's limited budget for repairs (which the sheriff took as his own graft) the port wasn't maintained nearly as much as any ship would be, and after a while the boards began to tarnish and rot.

Its downfall was also the fault of the citizens, who used the pillars and frames for their personal use. Women would hang clothes on the wires used to connect pillars to transfer the energy of a storm blast. This would be fine, but they put excessively large amount of clothes upon the lines which made them stretch and become loose. And too often the children would swim under the dock and jump off the beams supporting the planks. Sometimes a nail would drop when somebody slipped or a large chunk of wood, but all this was far from the minds of those using it though.

By any standard the infrastructure of Stormalong Harbor would be unacceptable to anyone but the most ignorant of engineers. But its support (or lack thereof) was the least of its citizen's problems. The large hunting and capturing of fish had caused the cod and lobster population to virtually vanish within a few years since the company first arrived. And with the fish gone, all the industry went with it. That's when a once thriving town faded from public memory and simply became another refueling and rest station for sailors coming around the Horn. And the once prosperous farms which were dotted along the islands surrounding the harbor were abandoned for more lucrative trade opportunity, further damaging the already waning economy of Stormalong.

With the money gone many of the opportunistic entrepreneurs and normal citizens, packed their belongings and left, not being able to make a decent living. Within 15 years, only 40 of the original 800 remained. The company, realizing that Stormalong was now a liability rather than an asset, offered rent at next to nothing to anyone who wanted to come. This attracted the extremely rich, who didn't want to be taxed, and the scum of the earth who needed a place outside a normal society. All of these things contributed to the condition Stormalong is in now: unkempt, untidy, old, and worn down; with no money anywhere in sight. With no prestige and honor, it was a hallow town with a hallow name.

However our young adventurer didn't know about the degraded condition the port now existed. He saw it as the greatest city in the world. To him those abandoned islands, which used to be farms, are the facet of his wildest dreams. He had such a deep interest; he spent all his time travelling to the islands which surrounded his beloved harbor, hoping to find "Candied Island".

The so called "Candied Island" was a joke invented by adults to kid one another about Stormalong's heyday. "Candied Island" was the name of a plantation island that was used to be used to grow massive amounts of sugar cane. The sugar cane was melted into sugar, which in turn would be made into molasses, rum, and every child's favorite: candy, hence how it got its nickname: "Candied Island". This fact was known to the older generation of the inhabitants who first came to the harbor, this was not known to the second wave of immigrants who travelled there such as: the bartender, the chirurgeon, or the blue sailor, who all thought Candy Island was literally a mythical island which held what each of them desired to posses. To many people those islands symbolized what could have been, to Flapjack they symbolize what he is, an adventure.

He had been told by the locals that it's always important to keep a log of whatever you discover, so he did. On his ninth birthday he went to the 'Binding Shop' and purchase for near 500 dollars a nicely bound journal, coated with a fine grease to make it shine, with smooth and elegant vellum paper used to line it. It was the nicest possession he had ever owned, and he didn't squander it.

For every island he visited, he had a map inside his book, on which he would draw the relative shape of the island and where it was on the map. Along with the squalls, sandbars, trenches, land marks, and anything else that he noticed on his travels. This in turn is how he tracked his progression looking for 'Candied Island' (which he had already found, but was not aware of it).

In addition to the map he kept a journal, a small weather proof ledger of sorts, where he wrote notes on observations he took while on the island. Though he made note of each islands difference, he made sure to always note: the latitude and longitude, the sand type, the fauna, the temperature, and creatures that inhabited it.

After many years, and many adventures, the ledger had become a large leather book filled with numerous observations. The newest section was entitled: TIDES. He had a small chart of the ports tides, but he hadn't been able to go any farther, because of time constraints. Flapjack, with a suggestion from Bubby, had planned to have the book published as soon as he finished.

With such a firm understanding of the local area, it's enough to boost one's ego considerably. Enough even to travel out into a storm…


	3. Chapter 3

The dock was uneasily calm. In the dead of the night there was no sound, no wind, no storm, nor any breath of the tide. The bitter foam cracked and sizzled as it lay idle on the sea top, as the water rolled ominously, back and forth on moor, as if tauntingly beleaguering a person, in order to hide its true intentions.

The gulls floated on the tips of their capacious wings, in large radiated circles, as they prepared to perch upon the many wooden crevasses and covers of the wooden shanty town. From their nestled berths they squealed their vexatious squalls that rung out of over the entire harbor.

Down the ancient stairs clonked and clamored the host of every able bodied man who was ready to risk his all to scan the waters for the lost daughter. In their midst, men carried harpoons and cutlasses, lamps and candles, oars and tillers, nets and rope, crucifixes and rosaries. One could not, from the darkness, tell, if they were a group of fisherman or a rag contention of thieves. In all truth, they were probably both, but they all knew what approached, but nevertheless they came. Lined up for whatever awaited them. Many realized their fate might lead them to the end, to the bottom of Davy Jones' locker, but they were still there, ready and able.

They progressed down the stairs to the lowest level of Stormalong , where they could have access to a beach where long boats were moored. But they could go no farther. At the bottom of the stairs, dressed in fine crimson jackets, slugging on their shoulders the most feared Brown Bess musket, were two of the city's elite guards, a militia of sorts, formed to keep order if there was ever need of it, conscripted and funded from none but the richest citizens. The two guards held fast, bayonets fixed they held their pikes below the final steps of the platform before it let out into the beach.

The running crowd came to a halt forming a crescent around the two armed guards as they ceased clunking down the stairs. Everyone looked strangely at the soldiers who had only been seen, usually, patrolling the rich sector of Stormalong. Indeed, many had never gazed at one so close and were astounded to see the many facets and laces on the soldier's uniforms.

They kept their pikes placed into the midst of the crowd. The one on the left spoke to them firmly and without emotion: "You are not allowed to be here, please leave."

The Captain who levied for the help of the citizens was sorely vexed. "Why, in Gods good earth man, are ye stopping me' from getting' into my own boat? Is it any concern of yours if I risk me' own skin for me kinder."

The younger cadet, on the right, spoke with a sincere tone, "No sir, the Colonel fears for public safety, he wishes all persons to stay confined to their houses, until the storm is done."

" Meine Tochter is out in the storm alone, every moment we delay we endanger her life. Is that not enough?!"

The older sergeant pulled back the lever on his rifle to 'full cock' as he stared grimily at the outspoken Captain.

"Go ahead and shoot!" The captain ripped his shirt revealing his bare chest to the mouth of the gun. "Go ahead! But when you do, you're a dead man. We'll come from all sides, you won't have time."

The soldiers didn't have time to respond, a deep resonance struck so loudly that it shook the entire dock. From the upper furrows of the dock the belfry rang its distress bell. The thunderous chime yelled bloody murder as it rung over and over again to the chorus of yells and screams of those whose lives hung in the balance.

The dock started glowing a fiery red, as the entire Harbor was engulfed in violence. In the midst of the rich district, all of the poorest citizens raped, pillage, and killed everything in sight. Lords and ladies ran everywhere trying to escape the wrath of the gentry who fell upon them like ravenous wolfs. Men cut down servants with tomahawks, brutally slicing their necks opens like paper, and then hacking their bodies to little pieces until there was nothing left but a bloody pulp of flesh and bones left.

Lords were captured, beaten, then strung up by their genitals and pulled until their members were dislocated from their bodies. Servants who had joined the mob, laughed at their former master until they couldn't stand the torture, and then would tie their Masters arms and legs to horses and have it ripped from their bodies.

Ladies were more or less fortunate than the Lords and help. The underlying middle class women were run down and raped right there in the city street by several men all lying on top of the woman. The richer were slaughtered, like their husbands, only their heads were cut off and put on pikes and paraded around. Then it was not uncommon for someone to rape the headless body of the lady. In fact, it was not uncommon for them to be raping the men's either. The most heinous was when the children also shared the parent's fate. This rampage flared up the entire rich district into a wild frenzy as innocents were butchered in the street. People jumped to their deaths from the high deck of Stormalong, into the ice cold, shark infested waters below than to face the reality of what the mob had in store. This cavalcade of debauchery of every type of crime continued until the bell had rung.

Soon though the town guard came, rifles ready at their waist they marched down the streets, one by one, shooting whoever came into sight, quelling with deadly efficiency all that stood in their way. Anyone who was not shot was bayoneted.

As the line progressed, it left in its wake, streets filled with dead bodies and the bodies of those who were dying as they groaned out their last moments, bleeding their hue of blood which soaked into the boards and fell into the harbor below. Soon the shrieks stopped and all that was left was a symphony of moaning and spar gunshots as the entire population of Stormalong was destroyed in one silent night.

A person might speculate that this catastrophe had a start. That something like this doesn't just happen, that maybe the lower classes were abused or wanted to loot. The truth of it was what everyone would never admit. What caused the formally happy and sedated peasants to do this heinous act was simply the fact that they wanted to. They wanted to process what they did not have, so they took the opportunity with the impending storm to overthrow the rich and gain a trifle or two to help them along. But such is what most horrible things in life are caused by, small and petty trifles.

However, the one fact that went unnoticed was that kerosene lamps were still burning right next to the wooden planks…


	4. Chapter 4

There are few things in the brief span of our lives that demand the due price of the forfeit of ones bodily constitution and the oath of their sacred honor, in order that it may continue. Indeed, a man must have solely established in the deepest cavern of his conscious that the actions , or the consequences resulting from those actions, are ones for which he could, or will, give the full measure of his devotion, and are worth the price or extent of that measure. For as it is known, most would label it folly or reckless endangerment to ones to being to even consider the risk of losing life or fortune for some trivial affair, unless it is lost for something which that person deems paramount enough to lay their duty on the line to preserve or uphold whatever object or idea that might very well be. Verily, not many people would be inclined to show the last full measure of devotion and lay down their lives for others. It is an extremely rare act, but if done for the right reason, it extremely honorable and glorious. Which is why we go out of our way to reward people who go beyond their expectations to achieve the what the rest would consider an extra-ordinary achievement, with some superficial reward that cannot come close to the proper recompense of that person's sacrifice. An award, of some kind, like Britain's Victoria Cross, or the American Medal of Honor, or what the Germans use: the Iron Cross. All these have been made to honor those who uphold this virtue of selfless endearment and devotion to ones principles. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a country or civilization anywhere in the world that upholds cowardice and treachery as a virtue if such a country or civilization existed.

However, when we ponder upon this ideal of selfless devotion another close words is related to it, a word which is the conduct in which we achieve our goal. It is the virtue of "Chivalry". When most of us hear the word : 'Chivalry', most of us would conjure up a noble general f or valiant knight who is well remembered through the heralds of time like Henry V whose prowess and bravery at Agincourt won him great renown or the legendary Erwin Rommel and his daring 'Afrika Corps' in the 'War without hate' which exceeded and broke the laws of military tradition up until that time. Such are the examples and embodiment of the word: 'Chivalry'. These are the models that society looks to as a basis for what a true hero is. However, not all chivalry and fortitude has to be shown on the battlefield. There are many instances of everyday challenges which have demanded and conceited the most average of persons and through their own conduct and exploits have one them much renown. Such as the well recorded doctors whose practices have inspired cures to the most debilitating of diseases, or the peace makers and philosophers as the most famous 'Jesus of Nazareth' who has transformed the entire world into an idea of mercy over tyranny in the face of an all knowing God. All these men are what we all want, a chance to change the world.

Verily, this is what our young companion wants to believe in his quest for adventure. That his life matters, that he can change the world for the better, out of an adventure and noble act of heroism. Most, again, would call it foolish, but to the many who consider it foolish and devilment to do such a thing, would you consider a baby, bare and uneducated, foolish if it were to fall from its crib? Indeed, we all have a sense of curiosity, of trying to understand that which is not revealed, that reveals itself most when we are babes. To try to understand the world, we experience it, by doing it. For how else would the babe known that he would fall to the ground if he did not first venture off the side. We keep this ability, throughout our entire life, but as the years progress this innate ability becomes more of a stagnant and fixated conscious as we grow biases and prejudices against well known facts. For example: we known if we put our hand in fire , it burns, so too, we stop putting our hand in fire. As we do more, we also learn what to do to achieve greater satisfactions. This is, to the most part, a very simple metaphor for a much larger comprehension of life in general.

Flapjack, being the ignorant child he is, was never subjected to the limits and bounds of the normal society and thus was never constrained to the same fixated beliefs and prejudices of normal folk. Thus it is no wonder he would attempt such a voyage. Maybe simply from curiosity, or as most would say, out of general concern, or a mixture of both. Whatever his motivation, his objective was clear : to gain and to rescue lady fair from her perilous predicament.

Yet, his decision to attempt such a noble feat was not only one of personal belief, but of a coming on an age, a path in to adolescence, so to speak. It is because, for the last few years K'nuckles has taught him everything he knows (which is not a lot to say the least). And so as the pre-adolescent boy comes to the point were he is about to become a teenager, he thinks he must prove himself worthy of the attention and teachings of his mentor. So as to prove himself worthy he must do it alone, to prove that he had absorbed those teachings and lessons. So as he crept along Stormalong's ancient stairs he had set in his mind that he would do it alone.

Although, this decision was also not one of immediate or spontaneous succession, he had many tedious hours of forethought and planning before he was willing to conceit to such an audacious exploit. It also required a great deal of variable changing and organizing to achieve the desired affect if any unseen circumstances arose. But it had planned deliberately enough so that he would able to set in motion the scheme at any given instant of his choosing.

To achieve this he firstly started sparingly collecting loose pieces of wood which he uncovered floating on the water and started compiling them in an elaborate arrangement. Later he started coming across a piles of timbers for reconstructing buildings, when no one was around he would a take a board or two for his own, and as to avoid arousing suspension he would take nor more than 2, and then take it back to his stockpile of wood. When he collected, to his discretion , enough wood, he started using the candy money he was given, from time to time, and instead of using it for the acquisition of candy, would instead use it to buy individual nails at the hardware store. Whenever he got another nail, he pounded it, using a rock, into the boards and timbers of the wood he acquired and continue to plank it around the frame he had set forth.

He did this, every day, every week, every month until at last he has built a small schooner that was capable of holding one man. It was an impressive accomplishment, made even more impressive by the fact that he didn't have a blueprint of any kind. He simply judged, made, trialed, made errors, and then revised, until after about a year of trial and error he had created a hull. And that's all it was really , a hull. It lacked a mast, the rigging, and all the necessities it takes to keep a ship a-float. Flapjack realized this when he compared his creation next to what a real ship looked like.

After reading several books about the subject he finally understood what needed to be done. He first used tar to coat the cracks of the boards, inside and out. The tar was to stop the space between the boards from leaking. When he had tarred it, he went about the task of sanding the boards. Because he lacked a sander he used pieces of sand paper which laid everywhere around the dock. He would take the paper and deliberately rub the paper over the boards until all the grime, filth, and general ware was gone and every single last plank of the ship was of a fine wood standard which was suitable to him. Next, using paint he "found" which nobody was using at the all but forgotten dry docks of Stormalong, he painted the entire ship a navy black to make it looks professional, even going so far as to add a white stripe along the keel to give it the "authentic" flavor of a true ship. Finally, to compensate for the lack of masts and sails, he candidly commandeered the extra sails from the abandoned fishing boats along the moor, and was able to get the mast from the generous donation of Stormalong citizens. Once assembled he sanded and painted them as well.

By now the boat looked as if it were a real sailing vessel. Sleek and unseasoned it was eye candy to the adventurer who took much pride in his many hard labors. But much to his dissatisfaction, he couldn't, sail it. If he were to go out and test it during the day the citizens of Stormalong might have questioned where their stuff went, and it was illegal to sail at night. So constrained by consequences he simply kept the boat under the dock, discreetly out of site in a dark shadowy corner, until the time that he might come and use it.

That time was now. As the storm began to clatter back to Stormalong's shores he pushed the schooner out in the depths, not knowing what to expect, but weal or woe he was not coming back until he had rescued her and proven his manhood, or till his bones lied in Davy Jones locker.


End file.
